


Courtship

by Chifuyu



Category: Hannibal (TV), King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Bad Jokes, Everybody is alive and well, Everybody is also fucking done with these two idiots, Explicit Language, M/M, Mentions of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 06:51:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5119124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chifuyu/pseuds/Chifuyu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Galahad can't stand Tristan. Tristan can't stand Galahad. Everybody else is pretty much done with their antics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Courtship

**Author's Note:**

> I've fallen into Hannigram/Spacedogs/Tristhad hell and asked over at twitter for prompts in preparation for the Hannigram Holiday exchange.
> 
> This one is for [Ale](https://twitter.com/Gio_Ax_MF) who asked for Tristhad acting like they can't stand each other when everybody else knows better.
> 
> I'm still taking prompts so don't hesitate to hit me up on twitter: [StaticRaining](https://twitter.com/StaticRaining)  
> Or on tumblr: [StaticRaining](http://staticraining.tumblr.com)
> 
> Shout-out also to [TheWhiteStag](https://twitter.com/thewhitestag) for being my lovely beta reader. I have a huge amount of respect for them and admire their work a lot. One of the best writers I ever had the pleasure of reading.

***

“He’s crude, arrogant and violent—”

“Uh-huh…”

“He may be a passable scout, and he may know how to use a sword, or throw a dagger, but so do others. There is nothing that justifies that unbearable attitude of his.”

“Right.”

“And on top of that—” Galahad stopped himself and looked up at Gawain sitting next to him in the darkness, his face barely illuminated by the fire crackling a few feet away. Guard duty had fallen to them this night and while the others were blissfully asleep, huddled around the warmth of the fire, they had to watch out for any strange occurrences or signs of danger. It was a dull task but necessary, and any other night the company of another would have been most welcome to help fight off the boredom. Today, it had become a burden, thanks to Galahad’s ceaseless complaints about Tristan.

“You’re not even listening, are you?” Galahad accused, his sour expression visible even in the dark. Gawain didn’t have the decency to pretend to be embarrassed.

He sighed, weary of Galahad’s laments.

“You’ve been going on and on about Tristan for the last two hours. Forgive me that my interest is dwindling at this point.”

Gawain was fond of Galahad, more so than he’d ever care to admit, but even he had his limits, and sitting out in the cold, the rest of their group soundly asleep while Galahad was close to talking both his ears off, caused his patience to wear thin.

“I have not been going on about him for the last two hours,” came the predictable reply. Gawain heaved another sigh and turned to face Galahad.

The youngster was doing his best to appear indignant instead of embarrassed, but Gawain knew him long enough to look past the furrowed brows and narrowed eyes.

“Tristan has earned his place at Arthur’s side and you know it as well as I do. So why this animosity all of the sudden? It wasn’t like this when we were younger.”

“Tristan wasn’t as insufferable when we were,” Galahad shot back. However, he didn’t try to refute Tristan’s worth and it didn’t go unnoticed by Gawain.

“You’re the only one taking offence at his behaviour even though nothing has changed.”

Galahad scoffed, his breath white in the moonlight.

“He treats me like a child.”

“You are the youngest.”

“But no child,” Galahad argued, agitation colouring his cheeks. “I’ve seen as much death and bloodshed as any of you. I simply don’t delight in it as Tristan does. If that renders me a child then so be it.”

Gawain was wise enough not to point out how Galahad’s current behaviour would make anybody, not only Tristan, call him childish. Before, he had admired Tristan, his poise, his skill with a sword, the easy way he had earned himself Arthur’s trust and friendship. Galahad, young and naive as was back in these days, had tried to emulate him in an attempt to gain his approval, only to be rejected. Tristan was not one to be flattered by imitation and had no qualms telling Galahad so. Gawain could only imagine how hurt Galahad must have been. He could never cast off his admiration for Tristan, but masked it with contempt instead. It was a poor attempt at best and Gawain wasn’t surprised when frustration settled in soon after, paired with an ever growing need to be seen by Tristan, to be recognized, after all. Galahad’s hate for Tristan was an elaborate lie he had been telling himself over and over again, for so long that he actually started to believe it.

“It’s not your empathy that makes us call you a child. It’s your inability to admit to yourself that your feelings for Tristan have nothing to do with animosity.”

Gawain got up, tired of the pointless discussion, and stretched before trotting off for another stroll around the camp. After some time there came a rustling noise and a grumbled curse from where he had left Galahad behind and soon enough his brother-in-arms caught up with him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, his unruly curls hanging in his eyes.

It was an act of intense self-control that kept Gawain from shaking his head in frustration. Tristan hadn’t been so wrong, after all, when he called Galahad a fledgling.

***

“You’re staring,” Lancelot said as he flopped down on the bench next to Tristan.

He was in an unbearably cheery mood, no doubt caused by the prospect of a proper bed, a warm meal, and the company of one of the wenches working in the cheap inn they were staying in tonight.

Tristan wasn’t complaining, not entirely. The ability to survive in the wild with nothing but the rags on his skin didn’t mean that he enjoyed it. On the contrary, the sight of a ceiling blackened by the smoke of a hearth fire was a welcomed change to the icy beauty of the night sky. If only his mood could be as easily improved by ample bosoms as Lancelot’s.

“Says the man who tripped and knocked over a whole table’s tankards, because he wouldn’t stop ogling ,” he pointed out.

Lancelot laughed and slid over a tankard of ale so full that a good mouthful or two sloshed onto the table. Tristan grabbed it before it could topple off the edge.

“But I don’t deny that I did.”

He winked and Tristan crunched up his nose in a sneer. He took a sip from his mug, relishing the taste of grain and yeast on his tongue, and not speaking another word. Unfortunately, Lancelot wasn’t so easily discouraged.

“Is the sight of dear Galahad so offensive you have to sit here brooding and attempt to kill him with your venomous stare alone?”

Tristan didn’t deign to give a reply and busied himself with his beer instead. It was proving to be far better company than Lancelot anyway.

“Or is it the attention he receives from others who are not you that sours your mood so?” Lancelot asked, a sly glint in his eyes as he watched Tristan over the rim of his mug.

Tristan’s expression remained carefully neutral, the only indicator that he had heard the question at all a small twitch of his eyebrow.

“You presume too much,” he finally relented. “He’s young and foolish. Unwilling to accept the reality of death and clinging to naive notions of chivalry.”

Lancelot leaned back and put his feet up on the table without hesitation. He ignored both Tristan’s warning glare and the exasperated sigh of the serving maid, but offered the latter at least a cheeky grin as an apology.

“You’re right, he’s young. Allow him that luxury a while longer, allow him to be foolish and naive and to cling to romantic notions of chivalry.”

“It will kill him.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. He’s a capable swordsman and skilled with the bow. Have more faith in him and his abilities.”

Tristan contemplated Lancelot’s words for a while, his eyes never straying from Galahad. The boy was laughing, caught up in a drinking game with Gawain, Bors and Dagonet. A game he was losing if one were to judge his swaying movements and glassy eyes partially hidden by his long curls.

“Skill with the sword means nothing if one is too cowardly to swing it.”

“He isn’t, though. Galahad has served as well as any of us and he wears the scars to prove it. Your doubts are unfounded.”

Lancelot paused, his gaze shifting from Galahad to the man next to him.

“Unless these are not doubts you’re expressing but concern.”

Tristan didn’t meet Lancelot’s eyes when he answered.

“I’m concerned for the safety of our group. One weak link and the chain will break.”

Lancelot laughed, loud and obnoxious as if Tristan had made a saucy joke. He got up, still chuckling, and clapped Tristan on the shoulder.

“Keep telling yourself that, my friend. For a scout, you’re surprisingly blind at times.”

He shook his head in amusement when he reached for his mug and walked over to the rest of their group, leaving Tristan to his own musings.

***

Fights always made Bors’ blood sing in excitement and his heart beat with the rhythm of the war drums. Today was no different. After they had cleaned the blood from their swords and plugged whatever valuables there were to to find from the corpses, he mounted his horse with a triumphant roar and a grin threatening to split his face in half.

“Nothing better than the thrill of a fight, or the warmth of a woman to remind you that you’re still alive,” he exclaimed and spurred his horse.

“Personally, I much prefer a woman,” Lancelot quipped, much to the delight of the remaining knights. Even Arthur’s stoic visage shifted with a hesitant smile.

“Who doesn’t?” Bors said. “I’d rather sheathe my sword in a woman than in a man.”

The men erupted into laughter once more, accompanied by loud whistles and shouts of agreement.

“Certainly a less bloody experience,” Lancelot agreed.

Tristan, who had remained silent up to this moment raised his head and smiled at Bors.

“That depends on the time of the month,” he argued, his voice void of emotion in spite of the crudeness of his statement.

A sudden silence followed his words, all eyes resting on him, before Bors’ laughter washed over them like thunder.

“True words, my friend. True words.”

“Disgusting.”

Like Tristan, Galahad had been silent until now, not partaking in the raunchy conversations of his companions. He threw Tristan a look full of repulsion that the other returned with a shrug and his usual indifference.

“A fact. But what do you know of women, boy?”

“Not much,” Gawain teased. “They don’t call him _The Pure_ for nothing.”

Galahad’s haughty expression melted away like snow in the heat of his indignation.

“Gawain!” he hissed, the tips of his ears a tell-tale red.

His friend only shrugged. “It’s not as if we didn’t know before.”

“Aye,” Bors agreed and rode up to Galahad to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “And it’s nothing that can’t be remedied. I’d even buy you your first. Just say a word.”

Galahad pulled on the reigns of his horse, leading it to the side so that Bors hand fell away from his shoulder.

“A generous offer, but one I have to refuse.”

“Come, boy, this can’t be healthy. No wonder you’re so jittery. Nothing wrong with unwinding from time to time.” Bors kept pestering him and not even the pointed glare from Arthur could stop him.

“Maybe he doesn’t fancy women,” Tristan commented and was met with the mortified stare of Galahad. It didn’t stop him from continuing. “Maybe he needs to be broken in just like a mare.”

“How dare you….” Galahad hissed, fury written all over his face while Tristan returned his glare with unwavering confidence. The rest had fallen silent, their eyes shifting from one man to the other, wary of how this confrontation would play out. Even Bors proved sensitive enough not to try and interfere.

“Tristan. Enough.”

Arthur’s voice cut through the silence like a knife and just like that, the tension was broken. Tristan tilted his head in a display of obedience and turned his back on Galahad to catch up with Arthur.

“That was unnecessary,” Arthur reprimanded, his voice lowered.

“I apologise.”

“It’s not me you owe an apology. I’m aware of how much you delight in teasing Galahad, but maybe it’s time to show your affection in a different way. One that Galahad can appreciate more.”

Tristan grunted, neither an acceptance nor a refusal.

***

“Mind your feet.”

Galahad hissed but shifted his weight accordingly. He lunged at Dagonet once more, painfully aware of Tristan’s eyes on him. The man was sitting at the outer edge of the training ring, chewing on a piece of dried meat and watching their sparring with an intensity that made Galahad’s fingers twitch around the hilt of his sword.

Dagonet didn’t seem to have this kind of problem. He deflected the blow aimed at his side with ease and charged at Galahad in return.

Galahad was on his back, his sword lying uselessly in the grass. Dagonet stood above him with his axe raised in triumph but his eyes narrowed in irritation.

“Fuck, Galahad. What was that?” he grumbled, but offered his companion a helping hand anyway, pulling him to his feet with one powerful jerk. Galahad brushed dirt and grass from his tunic and bare thighs before picking up his discarded sword.

“A disgrace is what it was,” Tristan offered from his spot. He got up, his movements all fluid grace and effortless control as he stepped closer and offered Dagonet a piece of his dried meat. He did not offer Galahad any.

“It wouldn’t have been if you had kept your unsolicited opinion to yourself instead of distracting me,” Galahad spat.

Dagonet almost choked on his piece of meat.

“Galahad,” he admonished. “He was just trying to help.”

“If you’re so easily distracted by my voice alone then maybe you shouldn’t fight on a battlefield with the screams of the dying men surrounding you. Better to leave you behind with the women and children,” Tristan countered.

“Tristan…” Dagonet remained ignored.

“Face me in a fight and we’ll see how much your screams distract me,” Galahad challenged, his full lips pulled back in a sneer, eyes glowing with unrepressed anger.

Tristan pulled his sword from its scabbard. “Don’t be foolish, boy.”

Galahad charged. Their swords collided with a clatter. Tristan deflected the blow with ease, his moves as precise as a dancer’s. Galahad attempted a second attack, only to be pushed back by Tristan once more.

All the while, Dagonet watched with increasing horror. Neither of the two paid any mind to his curses and demands to stop with this foolishness. He threw his arms up in frustration and turned to look for help. Arthur would be able to mollify the two and calm their frayed tempers. He just had to find him before Galahad and Tristan killed each other.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Tristan could see Dagonet leaving. Galahad used his moment of distraction to deliver a vicious blow that would’ve gutted Tristan if he had not stepped aside just in time. As it stood, the blade only grazed the hem of his tunic, leaving a clean cut in the coarse material.

“I’m no boy,” Galahad snarled and for once, Tristan believed him.

He was standing tall, sword in hand and his chest heaving with every breath he took. There was fire in his eyes and thunder in his voice.

“You’re no man either. Not yet.”

Tristan took a step forward and threw his sword aside. Galahad’s eyes widened in surprise and Tristan used that momentary confusion to lunge at him, his whole weight crashing against Galahad’s smaller frame and dragging him to the ground.

Galahad lost hold of his sword once more and before he could make a grab for it, Tristan had his wrists pinned above his head.

“If I were an enemy you’d be dead now,” he said.

His long hair was hanging in Galahad’s face, tickling the soft skin. Galahad hated it. His glare had lost nothing of its fierceness, despite his unfavourable position and for a second Tristan feared he would be spat at.

“And an enemy wouldn’t tackle me to the ground just to sit on top of me and sling insults either.”

“Me calling you a boy is not an insult. It’s an observation.”

“It’s degrading.”

“As degrading as you lying underneath me?”

Galahad blinked, the anger draining away from his eyes to be replaced by confusion. He became uncomfortably aware of the weight on top of him and how the fabric of Tristan’s trousers rubbed against his bare legs, how the fingers curled around his wrists held him down gently but surely, how Tristan’s eyes met his without hesitation. The memory of Tristan’s crude words from the other day resurfaced unbidden and heat curled in his belly.

“Not a boy. Not anymore.”

Tristan’s whisper sent a shiver down his spine and before Galahad had any chance to ask what he meant, a knee was gliding between his thighs.

Galahad inhaled sharply, his previous anger forgotten. He may be called _The Pure_ but that didn’t mean he was a stranger to desire and oh, how he desired Tristan at this moment. He wanted to grab him by his straggly hair and pull him close until their lips and teeth and tongues collided.

Tristan seemed to have similar ideas. He released Galahad’s wrists, his hands moving from his arms to the sides of his face. His knee was still pressed against Galahad’s crotch.

“So when you said I need to be broken in….” Galahad trailed off, a small smile playing around his mouth.

A look of momentary surprise flitted across Tristan’s face before lewd satisfaction took over.

“Not so innocent after all.”


End file.
